


The Lights Are On

by AmandaDBone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Insecurity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:03:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaDBone/pseuds/AmandaDBone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time John kissed Sherlock, he had no idea what he'd set in motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights Are On

**Author's Note:**

> A thank you to the anons at sherlockcrit on LJ, and huge thanks to my fantastic beta Vertiga, without whom this would be full of Americanisms, awful grammar, and also a lung that magically turned into a liver, among other embarrassments.
> 
> This was written for the third Let's Write Sherlock challenge on Tumblr. The song I chose is "Addicted to Love," originally by Robert Palmer and covered by Florence and the Machine.

The first kiss wasn't a kiss at all. It was a faint passing of lips over one another, completely accidental, dry, close-mouthed. Proximity was the cause rather than will, a nearness forced by the way they'd been pushed together, tied with rope, their hands secured behind their backs.

It was an old trick, like being tied to train tracks. John would have laughed about it if he could have, but instead he breathed hard against Sherlock's ear, pressed cheek-to-cheek.

"Got a plan to get us out of here?" he asked, knowing full well that Sherlock would.

"I can get us out like this, but it'll take time. We'll lose them."

"Oh, can't have that, can we?"

"Mmm, no." John could feel the twitches against his temple, knew Sherlock was trying to get a good look around them in the dim light. "Anything useful on your side?"

John squinted, but his eyes weren't as sharp, and a blow to the head earlier had made everything a little blurry around the edges. To him, it all looked grey and shadowy. "Can't tell."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, and John felt his smooth cheek push against John's rough one. "Tip your head back."

John did as he was told, craning as far back as he could to allow Sherlock space to turn his head.

He shouldn't have noticed it; after, he certainly wouldn't remember the way their foreheads had bumped, how Sherlock's nose had caught on his awkwardly. The lips, though, oh — John's lips, like those of so many others, had an informed sensitivity to them, supplemented by feedback from the brain whenever they were touched by someone other than himself. They tingled slightly, reminding him well after that momentary contact had come and gone.

Sherlock found something useful, after all, and they were gone in minutes. John forgot about it for a little while as they chased a jewel thief through London, catching him just at the break of dawn.

* * *

He didn't remember again until the next morning, when he woke with a feeling in his lips that echoed the night before.

He didn't intend to dwell on it. He thought he'd just carry on, dismissing it as the accident it was.

But his lips hummed the story of the night before back to him while he made tea and toast, feeling impossibly puffed and swollen. The crumbs of his breakfast felt almost painfully wrong on his mouth. He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip, trying to make the feeling fade, but it didn't. He felt like a teenager, overexcited about his first kiss, but there he was, thousands of experiences away from that and trying to forget it.

Sherlock woke after him, as he often did after a particularly strenuous case, and the moment he was in the sitting room John felt like he was remembering a kiss that had never happened. He imagined it, though: imagined that they hadn't passed quickly, that he'd caught Sherlock's face instead of letting it turn, and his heart beat against his ribs. He watched Sherlock flick through his phone, already seeking out a new case.

He wanted it. He didn't _want_ to want it, but there it was.

He set down the book he'd been struggling to read, made to stand up. He had to take a few breaths before he could manage it, feeling light-headed at just the thought of what he was about to do.

God, could he? He wasn't sure he could handle it, knew he hadn't thought it through enough, but he was moving anyway.

Sherlock had already shaved, and his face felt soft and warm under John's palm. His confused protest was cut short by John's mouth on his, his lips stilling at the contact. John closed his eyes, and although he received no active response, he felt Sherlock's jaw go slack, his lips parting just slightly.

He felt shaky and hot, and he pulled back, breathing against Sherlock's lips for just a moment before standing up straight and opening his eyes, his palm still on Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock’s eyes were wider than John had ever seen them, outside his occasional bits of acting for a case, and a little glassy, but focused intently on John's. His mouth was still open, though he noticed as much at the same time as John did and closed it slowly, clearing his throat.

"Not gay, then?" Sherlock asked, his composure fake enough for John to see through.

The words hit him hard, and settled in his stomach like a weight. He took a breath, ignoring the way his palms were sweating, and pretended it didn't matter. "Well. Not straight, either, I suppose."

"Obviously." His voice wavered slightly, and that word, so often carrying disdain, showed more vulnerability than John would have thought was in him.

John smiled at him weakly. "Sorry. I— you can just forget about it, all right?"

Sherlock didn't answer him. John could see the wheels turning — they were always turning, but he had apparently effectively distracted Sherlock from his previous train of thought. He left him to it, retreating to the kitchen to find something to occupy his hands and mind.

Sherlock still hadn't moved from his spot a half hour later, so John left to do the shopping, more to give Sherlock space in which to fill the room with his thoughts than anything else.

He lingered at the shop, fear and doubt creeping up on him. Sherlock may not have been a normal flatmate, but that didn't mean he'd respond any better to his supposedly heterosexual best friend planting one on him. He suspected Sherlock had sexual urges, perhaps even romantic ones, after Irene Adler, but even in that singular case he'd seemed to loathe feeling that way.

For himself, he could hardly spare a thought. It still stunned him that he'd wanted it at all, that he wanted to do it again. He wasn't quite sure what that meant, and wasn't prepared to figure it out until he knew what Sherlock's response was.

Once back at the flat, he tried to act as though nothing strange had happened, relieved that Sherlock was still quiet when he came in, though he could feel him watching as he put away the shopping. When the last tin was in the cupboards, safely away from all hazardous materials, he steeled himself, resigned to being the one to break the silence, and turned.

He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't even heard Sherlock come up behind him. He was close, close in a way that only days ago John might have passed off as his usual lack of respect for personal boundaries, but just then it seemed intimate instead, and he could not speak after all.

"Do it again." Sherlock was trying hard to be his usual impassive self, but John could see a tremor in his lip. He shifted his weight, leaned in towards John just a little.

John put one hand on his neck, right where it joined his shoulder, and the other in his hair, gently, enjoying the way it wove itself around his fingers. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, just millimetres away from kissing Sherlock deliberately for the second time, and then surged forward, less gentle, less chaste. He kept his lips closed, no urgency for anything else, but his meaning clear: _I want this. I want you. I'm sorry I didn't kiss you sooner._

Sherlock, for a moment, seemed to have no idea what to do with his hands, but they settled eventually on the sides of John's jumper, fingers curling tightly into the fabric.

John felt dizzy with the sweetness of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to make sense of itself, to tell him it was all a dream or that he was gay, had been all along, that what he felt for the impossible man before him wasn't confusing or new or unexplainable. He'd have settled for a reality in which he'd realized he might be bisexual before, even, and prayed for it to come to him. It didn't, but that tremor in Sherlock's lip came back, and that was a suitable answer in place of everything else.

They stood in the kitchen for a long while, trading thrilling, sexless kisses. Sherlock sighed when John kissed his neck, inexpertly mimicked the movements of his mouth. When John pressed his lips to Sherlock's fingers, not even a true kiss anymore, he let the wave of excitement wash away, leaving behind contentment — no, elation, a joy he hadn't known for a long time.

* * *

They explored their new freedom with each other throughout the day, catching a kiss here, touching unabashedly, another kiss there. In the evening John sat down to watch television, and Sherlock put his knees on either side of his thighs, forcing him to tilt his face up. It was a new kind of kiss for John, one he had to reach for. He liked it, even though it made him shake.

He only hesitated again before he went to bed. He wanted to kiss Sherlock, but there was something different about a kiss good night, beyond the implications it might have carried in another relationship. Besides that, Sherlock was busy with an experiment; he wasn't sure he felt comfortable interrupting him. It felt too forward, somehow.

He didn't realize he'd been staring until Sherlock looked up from his work. He crooked a smile at him, and John felt his face flush, just slightly. Sherlock rose then, crossed to him, and pressed him against the wall by the stairs, his hands on his chest.

"Good night, John." There was a trace of amusement in his voice, nearly covering up the note of longing underneath it.

"Good night," John repeated, and leaned up for his kiss.

Something shifted then, and John opened his mouth, waited for Sherlock to do the same.

Tasting Sherlock was extraordinary. The first slide of John's tongue against teeth, the inside of his lip felt like electricity travelling down his throat and out to his fingertips. In this, there was no tentativeness to Sherlock's response: he sucked John's tongue, earning a low moan, and then chased it back into John's mouth, no doubt memorizing the feel of him.

John recognized the beginnings of arousal in himself, and on some level it frightened him: as much as he had been perfectly fine with the intimacy of a kiss, exploring anything sexual was another matter entirely. He realized it was irrational — his own sister was gay, he'd had plenty of friends who were, and it really had never felt like a big deal for anyone else to be — but he couldn't help but shy away from breaking that taboo.

Feeling ashamed that he was letting that fear get to him, he let his arms fall and slumped back against the wall, dropping his chin slightly. Sherlock laid a kiss on his temple, then another, before reluctantly stepping back.

"Good night," he said again, then turned back to the kitchen and his microscope.

It took a moment for John to regain his composure fully. Up in his room, he felt a pleasant, bone-deep tiredness, and though he wasn't sure if it was residual exhaustion or adrenaline drop, he fell asleep smiling.

* * *

On a purely physical level, things progressed slowly. John was fine with that, as their burgeoning relationship had untested waters for the both of them: on John's side, he had to get used to the idea of dating not just a man, but someone who was selfish, irresponsible, childish, and utterly, fantastically brilliant; on Sherlock's side, it was clearly a new game to focus on an emotional connection at all, or, at least, it had been a long time since he'd pursued one of a romantic sort. John didn't ask his history; he was content to know that he had Sherlock in his own time.

On another level, though, the weeks following that first real kiss produced a startling change in Sherlock. He initiated touches and kisses even more often than John, watched him openly more often, and even, at times, grew distracted from the work.

Once, he had caught Sherlock just staring at him. Just _looking_ , not analysing. His lips were parted slightly, his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled in front of his face. He was caught up in it, and utterly unabashed when John met his eyes.

John had always suspected that Sherlock in a relationship would be the same as Sherlock at any other time. He would have thought Sherlock's dismissal of physical needs and wants as boring would extend to sex, to casual intimacy, even to love and all related emotions as a concept. Even after Irene, he had seemed contemptuous of the whole idea of a relationship, as though reasserting his disinterest in the matter of romance as a whole.

Instead, the reality he found was a Sherlock Holmes who appeared to be positively obsessed with it. He held his breath when he thought John might touch him; he carried a plea in his words: "Kiss me." He said it over and over, at times when even John wouldn't have expected it. At times it seemed like it caused him actual pain when John drew away, and he would pout until John laughed, or sighed, and came back to him, melting into Sherlock with renewed vigour.

It came to a head on the next case. John had expected Sherlock to cut him off all but intellectually when his work came into play, and had prepared himself for it. If Sherlock couldn't be bothered with food or sleep, it seemed unlikely that he'd acknowledge John as more than his sounding board, as per usual.

It was not so. The moment he got word of the case, he grabbed John and celebrated with a swift kiss before bolting out the door. On its own, that would have hardly been remarkable, but there was more. As they left the scene of the murder, Sherlock's fingers very deliberately brushed the back of John's hand, just as confirmation that he _could_ , a point of contact to remember them by. While investigating one of the victim’s old hangouts, he had stood close, just behind John, nearly hooking his chin over John's shoulder as he craned his neck to get a better look at what turned out to be just a normal freezer. Later, as Sherlock sat in 221B apparently lost in thought, John had been startled out of his chair by Sherlock's voice, cutting through the air sharp and clear: "Kiss me."

John eyed him, somewhat wary. "For the case?"

"No," Sherlock answered, looking almost guilty about it. "I've hit a dead end. Kiss me."

John did.

In the light of the day after, yet another person, this one the second-to-last to have seen the victim alive, saw the two of them and made her assumptions: "Oh, you two do make a striking couple."

The usual denial rose up in John's throat, but he swallowed it down and let it the words wash over him. He found that finally, he didn't feel any bitter rejection at those words, and was happy to let her comment stand. He tried, for the moment, not to reflect on what it meant that he'd denied it so often, so vehemently, before, and just knew he wouldn't be denying it again.

The most startling moment, however, came just minutes before Sherlock cornered their murderer. They were waiting for him in an empty park after nightfall, the both of them tense and ready to spring. It felt like they'd been silent for ages, to John; his jaw ached with stillness.

"John." Fingers over the back of his hand again, getting his attention. John peered into the darkness, expecting to see the man they were waiting for. Nothing. " _John_."

John looked to Sherlock's face, took in his pleading expression. "Now? Here?"

Sherlock nodded sharply, and waited. He was unsure, that much was clear, but still he'd asked, as though he couldn't help himself.

John, nervous about missing their target, instead took Sherlock's hand in his own, brushing his lips lightly against the back of it. Sherlock made a small noise, his fingers twitching in John's grasp, but didn't push it further.

* * *

"Kiss me."

John had heard those words a hundred times from him, ranging in tone from a request to an outright demand. Even at Sherlock's most irritating, it made John feel pleasantly warm, and he usually saw no reason to deny him.

Blowing a hole in the kitchen wall, though, wasn't just annoying, and it was made worse by the human lung that had been at the centre of the explosion, now splattered across the kitchen. It had been enough to make John gag before it was in pieces, but after, he was covered in bits of singed, decaying flesh, and the smell was incomparably nauseating.

And Sherlock, when confronted with John's anger, had seen fit to seek out a snog. Like John would want to kiss him when they were both covered in that filth; like it would make him any less angry.

Before he could gather his wits to answer, Sherlock was leaning in, apparently taking his momentary silence as an affirmative. John caught his shoulders, shoved him back, perhaps a little rougher than he'd meant. It didn't matter: Sherlock held steady, looking at John with a mixture of confusion and panic.

If he hadn't been so angry, John might have felt bad about it. "Are you joking? Absolutely not. I can't even _begin_ to say no enough. For god's sake, you can't... No. Just clean this up. I'm going to take a shower."

The hot water calmed him, let him focus enough to do more than just curse Sherlock's name over and over. He stood in the spray for longer than strictly needed, well after he'd finished picking off pieces of lung from his face, and let himself get lost in thought.

They had argued before plenty, and besides their new physical intimacy, nothing had really changed between them. He didn't feel any angrier than he might have had it happened before they'd started their sort-of-relationship, but Sherlock had looked— Well, he'd looked very unlike himself. Normally little John said during an argument could bother him, but all it had taken was denying him an out through a kiss, and he'd finally found a chink in his armour.

He wondered if that was Sherlock trying to exploit John's feelings for him, or if it was genuine. It was always hard to tell. John remembered the Baskerville case, how easily Sherlock had manipulated him with just an apology and a cup of coffee, and a new wave of doubt came over him. In this, he supposed, there was a change: if Sherlock was going to use his feelings against him, or even try to, he wasn't sure he could handle it. He had no real desire to give up what they'd only just discovered between them, but he also had no desire to follow anyone around like a dog, begging for scraps of affection and being tugged around by his heart.

The sound of the door opening startled him out of his reverie.

"I've cleaned and sterilized everything." John could just make out Sherlock's shape through the shower curtain, some colours, and wasn't completely sure he was comfortable with Sherlock seeing as much of him. Not just yet. "Someone will come to look at repairing the wall tomorrow."

"Good," was all John could think to say. He started scrubbing at his arms, suddenly feeling the need to put on a show of washing, to pretend he hadn't been standing there doing nothing. It was pointless anyway, he was sure. Sherlock probably knew how long his showers normally were to the minute.

The snap of the curtain nearly sent him slipping onto his arse, but he managed to steady himself against the wall, his other hand reflexively covering his groin. Sherlock was leaning in, just barely out of the spray, and watching John expectantly.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" He tried to pull the curtain back, but without any way to get a good, steady footing, it was a losing battle. "For fuck's sake, _get out_!"

"You're still embarrassed about me seeing you naked." He paused, looked down briefly; John dropped the curtain to cover himself with both hands. "Or is it 'again' rather than 'still'? Is this as far as we go?"

"Don't be ridiculous," John scoffed, but still, he couldn't bring himself to drop his hands.

Sherlock watched him for another moment, his eyes raking over John's body like the light touch of a single finger. "Kiss me."

Oh, no. Anger had given way to shock, to bemusement, sluiced away with the water, but at that it returned. John was not ready to let that be used, even hypothetically. "I'm still angry with you."

Sherlock leaned in a little closer, catching stray droplets in his hair, on his cheek and collar. "I know. Kiss me anyway."

Some part of John wanted to. Oh, god, it wanted to so badly, and yet— "Get out," he repeated, pressing one palm against Sherlock's chest, pushing him back and out of the shower. He gripped the curtain hard and pulled it closed quickly.

The silhouette remained a moment longer, and John's brain filled in the rest: that look of shock and disappointment, the wet hand-print over his breast, the water running down the side of his face. It was burned into his mind's eye by the time Sherlock turned around and left him, the click of the door soft behind him.

John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and finished scrubbing at his arms.

* * *

After everything else, seeing Sherlock deprived of affection once he'd started on it was completely baffling, and not a little mesmerizing. John didn't cut himself off entirely, though; he was angry, but he didn't suddenly hate him. He spoke to Sherlock as often as ever, offered him tea when he made it, sat with him and helped him search for their next case. Once the wall had been repaired — though there was an obvious colour difference where the hole had been, which Mrs. Hudson wasn't pleased about at all — he even relented on distance, letting himself slide a little closer to Sherlock, letting their fingers bump and his shoulder rest against Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock still looked like his arms were being twisted the wrong way about. When he watched John, he gritted his teeth, his jaw working restlessly, and he seemed to be entirely unaware of it. Even when he was caught up in some problem, his eyes would twitch to John like he couldn't help himself, like he needed his fix of him. He ate even less than usual, and John could see that his lack of sleep was taking a toll on him. The dark circles under his eyes, coupled with a greater paleness about him and a slight trembling in his lip, made him look almost like he was going through the first stages of withdrawal. John would have sworn he even caught him sweating, though the flat was perfectly temperate.

After just four days, Sherlock broke. All morning long he had demanded a case while dismissing every option John and even Lestrade sent his way; they were all too simple, too mundane. He had found his cigarettes and nearly lit one before John had grabbed it, tossed it in the toilet, and went off to hide the carton.

It was nearly breaking John's resolve, but he had to return to him on his own terms. He still didn't feel sure that any of it was genuine, whether it was an act or merely playing up his usual boredom.

Not long into the afternoon, he sat on the sofa, steadfastly ignoring the way Sherlock, once again not deigning to dress in anything more than pyjamas and his dressing gown, studied him from his chair. John had the telly on, but he was putting more effort into not seeing Sherlock than paying attention to whatever was on, and considering picking up a book instead.

He had nearly decided, was about to switch the set off, when Sherlock stood abruptly, crossed over to the sofa, and dropped gracefully onto it. He had reversed his usual position, landing with his head comfortably pillowed in John's lap, looking straight up at him.

John switched off the television. "Um."

"I can't stand this." Sherlock paused, searching John's face for something. "How can you?"

John cleared his throat, suddenly not very sure at all. "I— Well, I am— I _was_ angry with you."

"And that made you stop wanting to kiss me?" He looked honestly lost, a little desperate.

John shook his head. "Not really, no."

"But you did."

"I did, yeah."

"Because you were angry."

John sighed. "Yeah, I was angry. I also wasn't— I'm still not sure, actually, what it is you're trying to achieve, here."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I'm trying to kiss you."

"That's all?"

Sherlock nodded, just slightly. John tried not to notice how close the back of his head was to his cock. His lips parted, and he waited.

John spent a moment just looking at him. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Sherlock so obviously wanting for anything before, besides a case to occupy himself with; he wasn't sure how he could have mistaken it for anything else. "God, look at you. Do you really want it that bad?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, his mouth too. "Don't mock me."

"I'm not. I'm just... amazed, really. I would never have figured you to be this interested in being with — well, anybody, but certainly not me. I thought romance wasn't for you."

"It's not," Sherlock insisted, closing his eyes tighter. "It's pointless and repetitive; there's no reward to it, no mental stimulation from it at all. I have no interest in _love_."

"You're lying." John put one hand on Sherlock's jaw, dragged his fingers up to his lips. They twitched under his touch, helplessly.

John expected another protest, but got none; instead, Sherlock's eyes opened, met his own, and he looked absolutely wrecked.

"Oh," John breathed, and put one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, the other pulling at his shoulder to lift him up and crash their mouths together, their tongues immediately meeting. Sherlock breathed harshly through his nose, and it sounded almost like crying; John surged into him, tugging at his body more urgently and touching, touching him everywhere he could. Sherlock just held himself up, absorbing everything John gave him, and shuddered with relief.

Sherlock panted roughly when they separated, trying to rearrange themselves. John wound up pushed back against the sofa with the whole weight of Sherlock in his lap, pressing him down and covering him; he could feel his heartbeat thudding wildly against his hand as he passed his palms over his chest, then down, grasping at his hips as they kissed again. Sherlock cradled John's head gently in his hands and let himself be manhandled closer, his knees bracketing John's hips, both of them shrouded in his dressing gown.

"Christ." John pushed his hips forward, suddenly needing it, needing contact and hoping with wild desperation that Sherlock wanted that side of it, too. He slid a hand between them, palmed nervously at Sherlock's thigh for a second, and then, very tentatively, slipped his thumb over Sherlock's cock.

Oh, he was hard. John felt like his heart was going to give out with relief and excitement, like he'd never wanted anything else so badly. He cupped Sherlock's erection, rubbing at him through his thin pyjama bottoms, and was rewarded with a short, aborted thrust into his palm. He grinned into their kiss, tracing the length of his cock delicately, teasingly.

"I never figured—" he murmured against Sherlock's lips, pausing to bite at them. "I thought you'd be bored."

"John." Sherlock turned, buried his face in John's shoulder, and shuddered.

John paused, a thought occurring to him. "You're not _actually_ a virgin, are you?"

"No," Sherlock replied sullenly. He rocked his hips into John's palm again. "I've never wanted it like this."

John had to close his eyes then, breathe deeply. "Hold on," he said, and started manoeuvring them into a new position again, until he was down on his back, Sherlock looming over him.

Sherlock took the initiative then, lining up their erections as he draped himself over John's body, holding himself up on one elbow while the other trailed down John's side. "Shouldn't we be undressing?"

John raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you want to get up now?"

"God, no," Sherlock answered, and dove into his mouth again. He thrust hard against John's cock, grasping him by the arm as if to hold on as his world rocked with him. He stopped when John thrust back against him, reared up and fumbled with his clothes, pulling his shirt up and his bottoms down. "Yes, yes, please."

John took the opportunity to open his own fly, shoving his trousers down as far as he could and pushing his jumper and shirt out of the way. He let out a huff when his cock brushed the inside of Sherlock's thigh, and groaned deeply when he lay down again, the feel of their cocks rubbing against one another positively electric.

Sherlock mouthed along his jaw, as though he couldn't summon the coordination for a proper kiss, and John buried his hands in his hair, loving it. " _Shit_ ," Sherlock muttered, jerking hard as his cock caught briefly on John's navel before sliding himself back down, aligning them again.

"Come on," John urged him, dropping his hands; he slid one down Sherlock's back, down to grope at his arse, pulling them together harder with every thrust. He worked the other between them again, catching Sherlock's cock and pressing it down onto his, pulling back his foreskin and rubbing his thumb over its head whenever he could, slipping the tip of his finger over the slit. "Come on, Sherlock, come on."

"I don't— I'm, I can't—"

"Come _on_ ," John urged him again, stroking as best he could with his hand caught in between their stomachs. "Jesus, Sherlock, come on."

Sherlock panted against his jaw, eyes squeezed shut, his thrusts growing sloppy and short.

John pulled him in harder, fanning out the fingers on his arse, turning his fist into a tunnel for Sherlock to push through. "Come on, Sherlock. Kiss me."

He did, immediately, pressing his mouth messily to John's, no finesse to it, hardly doing more than breathing into him, letting himself be kissed and tasted. His thighs trembled, his grip on John's arm bruising, and with a choked off sound delivered directly into John's throat, he came, warm slickness spreading out over John's belly.

He remained prone for a moment, boneless and just letting John thrust against him. With a great effort, though, he heaved himself up until his weight was again all on one elbow, and reached down to join his hand with John's, curling long fingers around him and pulling lazily, but just right.

John came with a huff of breath, adding to the mess on his stomach and — yes, he confirmed, _fuck_ — his shirt and jumper. Sherlock sat up, keeping mostly out of the mess, and stared down at him, taking in the sight of a post-orgasmic John with the faintest of smiles.

He was a mess, and he felt short of breath, like his heart was hammering against his ribs too hard, too excited for having just rubbed himself off against his— his what?

His Sherlock.

There was something caught in his throat, though, something he felt he had to say, before he could so much as stand up again.

"I know this is a terrible time to say it," he began, averting his eyes, already embarrassed, "but I do love you."

Silence. His heart thudded harder; his cheeks grew warm. He looked at Sherlock again.

Sherlock, whose faint smile had grown, who had a bit of colour in his own cheeks, and who was grabbing at the front of his jumper, hauling him up.

"Kiss me," he said, and John did.

**Author's Note:**

> >    
>  _You like to think that you're immune to this stuff, oh yeah_  
>  _It's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough_  
>  _You're gonna have to face it, you're addicted to love._  
>  —"Addicted to Love" by Robert Palmer/Florence and the Machine


End file.
